Dear Jack, I love you, your Chloe
by Little.Latina
Summary: The pen starts dancing over the paper sheet, and once the first two words are there, staring at her coldly, she realizes writing will be a relief, but it will also be some sort of punishment.
1. The writing process begins

_This goes to Kiefer Sutherland and Mary Lynn Rajskub, for having been – among others like Reiko Aylesworth and Carlos Bernard – two of the deepest, most important, sweetest, purest sources of inspiration I could only dream of before I found them._

_And this goes to my friend Rocío too. As simple as it is: for everything. _

* * *

Her life instead of his she would beg God to take did she believe in Him every time she's battling against tears because she doesn't want to let them fall and by that act alone admit defeat, and by that act alone admit she is sick worried because once more he is out there, out in the cruel, dark, cold world fighting cruelness, darkness and coldness all on his own, without the sweet, pure protection of his guardian angel, the guardian angel that has let him down, the guardian angel that has betrayed him, the guardian angel that has gone to all extremes to try and accomplish the mission of saving him, the mission of catching him every time he falls so he doesn't break, so he doesn't shatter, so he can keep on living, the guardian angel that has lied to him, the guardian angel that has failed him, the guardian angel she stopped being when she turned her back on him, the guardian angel he lost his trust in, the guardian angel that went to the extreme of hurting him, lying to him, betraying him, setting him up, letting him down because she thought she was protecting him from something worst, from getting killed.

The guardian angel he has forgiven, the guardian angel he has thanked, the guardian angel he has said to that he knows everything she ever did, everything she ever did she did it to protect him. Everything she ever did, when she did it, she was doing her job: protecting him.

Then why does she feel like dying, if her job, her mission has been accomplished? Why does she feel like a failure? Why does she hate herself? Why does she feel this heavy weight on her shoulders, on her heart, on her soul? Why does she feel like a shadow? Why does she hurt so much all she wants is to be finally empty, to finally do something to empty herself and stop this?

These are the twisted, tangled, tortuous, poisonous, excruciating, consuming, heartbreaking, and unhealthy, threatening thoughts that are going on in Chloe O'Brian's mind tonight.

She has decided to write a letter she knows will never be sent. A letter she has first written in her mind, analyzing every single word that came across her track of thoughts, before she gained the courage it takes to write it down on paper. Before she gained the courage it takes to sit down with a pen in one hand, a sheet of paper in front of her, and simply let it out, let it all out.

And oh, poor Chloe, oh, are her thoughts twisted, tangled, are her thoughts tortuous, are her thoughts poisoning her, are her thoughts driving her crazy, are her thoughts consuming her, are her thoughts stabbing her in the heart, are her thoughts making her soul throb, are her thoughts threatening her sanity, are her thoughts making it all worse than it already was, worse than it already is.

Oh, has she been confused. Oh, is she confused right now, as she sits down and starts writing.

Oh, has she felt lost. Oh, does she feel lost right now.

Oh, has she felt pain. Oh, does she feel pain right now, a pain that she cannot bear, a pain that she does not know how to deal with. A consuming pain that is getting the best of her, that is what devours her as she starts to write the first of many letters that will be never sent, the first of a thousand letters she thinks the eyes of her beloved will never see, letters filled with words she is certain her beloved's heart will never be embedded in. And oh, is it painful to write this first letter, this first letter of many.

But, somehow she knows, it will also be therapeutic, this torturous writing process. It will help easing the suffering, or at least that she hopes for: she hopes for her suffering to be eased soon, before she dies of a broken heart, before _this_ she feels, this she has been feeling for years now consumes her totally, leaving her empty, completely empty.

She wants to be empty, yes; she knows everything will be better if she were empty. But she doesn't want to be emptied _like this_.

If she is to end up emptied, then she wants to empty herself and not sit arms crossed waiting for suffering and bitter depression to get the job done. She wants to write until emptiness is all she can feel inside, cracking her bones and breaking her veins and poisoning her blood and… She doesn't know. She doesn't know where this will take her. She doesn't know what she is doing, she just knows she needs to write, and write, and write, and write, and write and empty herself and try to breathe again, for breathing has become so difficult ever since the afternoon he parted…

She's never been good with words, she's never been good at expressing her feelings. She will do what she can. She doesn't really mind, she just wants to write and empty herself and ease her pain and end the suffering. She just wants to feel some peace, whatsoever.

The pen starts dancing over the paper sheet, and once the first two words are there, staring at her coldly, she realizes writing will be a relief, but it will also be some sort of punishment.

She doesn't care. She deserves it, for having loved him in secret for years, for having never told him how she felt, for having never understood what to do with that, for having never done something to make him see she could be more to him than just a guardian angel, for having ever had the thought of being more than a guardian angel to him cross her mind. This writing process will be a healing process, and it will also be some sort of process in which she is going to punish herself for all the things she has and hasn't done. This will bring back ghosts and haunted echoes, and tainted memories, and it will also bring peace. _Maybe. _

She sobs, she writes. She cries, she writes. The tears leave stains on the sheet of paper, but she doesn't care, she doesn't even notice those stains, she just writes, she writes with a passion she didn't know she had in her, she writs like she's never done it before, and she cries, and she sobs uncontrollably, and she bites her fist because she doesn't want to wake her son up, she doesn't want her son to hear her crying.

She keeps writing, and writing, until that first letter she first wrote down in her mind is there, materialized.

She sees his name, there, on paper. She whispers it, and when she does, it's as if a knife was being twisted in her heart, touching all those unhealed, unclosed wounds she has been living with.

_Dear Jack,_

…


	2. Letter number seven

_Dear Jack,_

_I used to hate nights so much. Being awake is better than being asleep, you know? That I thought, that is what I used to think. The other day, on the radio, they were playing this song I don't know the name to or the lyrics to… I just remember this one line: "I'd rather stay awake when I'm asleep" That was me, that used to be me: I wanted to be awake all the time, I didn't want to fall asleep, I wanted to stay awake, in permanent alert, free from dreams and nightmares that could haunt me down. _

_Every time I went to sleep dreams would haunt me and torture me. Dreams of you, Jack, I had them every single night of every single day. You, you were the only one I dreamed about. For years, you've been the only one I've dreamed about. Do you wonder what those nightmares were made of? I know them by heart, the fears those nightmares were made of. _

_You being taken away from me, a terrible pain the only feeling that followed suit, killing me, destroying me, shattering me to pieces, making me feel as though the world was about to end for me. _

_You being hurt by the Chinese. I could do nothing to save you, and it killed me. I would wake up so desperate, feeling so desperate, covered up in cold sweat, with my heart pounding so hard I would think I was gonna have a cardiac arrest, and I'm not kidding. Every time they tortured you, they were torturing me as well, physically and mentally. They didn't need to have me captured, they didn't need to use their hands and those other frightening methods I don't even wanna think of: the fact that they had you, the fact that they were hurting you, knowing that, knowing that you were suffering and that there was nothing I could do to stop it was enough to make me die a little bit more with each passing second. And in my nightmares, I had to relive it all, all the time, every night, everything would come crashing down on me over and over and over again, and even after having woken up it would take me minutes to understand it was just a nightmare. _

_Do you know which other things helped building up the dreams that tortured me? You desperately trying to save Tony from himself and failing, you getting killed and it being my entire fault, you crying because of the loss of Audrey, you losing your daughter over a mistake of mine and yelling at me saying that you hate me… And the list goes on and on. _

_All my nightmares used to be about you, that's why I feared so much going to sleep, that's why I feared so much closing my eyes and willing sleep to come and take over me: because I knew once it did, nightmares would come get me. Sounds silly, doesn't it? But that was the way I felt. _

_After our last conversation, falling into a quiet, dreamless sleep became even harder to me, even more difficult, because all I dreamed of, all I saw every time I closed my eyes was you, hurt and wounded, trying to run away, looking at me, looking back after you had run, as if you wanted to stay connected with me a little bit longer… I know I wanted to stay connected to you just a little bit longer, just two more minutes, but eventually I had to ask Arlo to shout it down… I couldn't stand it, the sight of you hurt, the sight of you wounded and betrayed, the sight of you suffering._

_Those memories were so haunting. Your voice resounding in my ears was so haunting, and at the same time it did me good. It does me good, remembering those last words you said to me, while you looked at me in the eyes, even if you could not see me. You knew I could see you. You were looking at me, talking to me, and those words you said nursed me to insanity every night, they were the perfect prelude for the darkest nightmares, nightmares in which you're in trouble and I cannot be there to protect you, because I don't even know where you are. But at the same time the sound of your voice did… does me good. Silly, huh? But that's how it feels, the memory of your words: some times it scares me, some times it drives me crazy, some times it eases the pain, and some times it does me good. _

_During those first weeks after you ran away and escaped, all I dreamed of was you hurting, you suffering, you being found and killed, and me not being able to do anything to sale your life, to be your guardian angel once more. But then something changed, something… I don't know how to describe it, I'm not good with words, I'm… It's gonna sound silly but I started imagining you every time I closed my eyes, I decided it was gonna be me imagining you because I wanted to and not because my mind wanted to play sick tricks on me. I wanted to regain control over my thoughts. So I started to think of you, happy, smiling, safe, living a better life, having a chance to get the life you deserved, the life you've always deserved… And it worked. Nightmares stopped. _

_Thinking of your eyes looking into mine when you thanked me made my nightmares stop. It keeps them at bay. It makes them go away. And now all I dream about is you. All I look forward to now is falling asleep so I can hear your voice and see those beautiful eyes of yours looking into mine again, once more, replaying that last moment between us and that something I can't describe that still lingers like the perfume of yours that will never be smelt on my pillow, on my sheets or on my own skin. _

_God, I'm not making any sense. But I don't care. I don't care I'm a mess. I don't care my thoughts are all so tangled and so clouded. I don't care these words don't make sense at all. They make sense to me, and that is all that matters. This, everything, whatever this is, has always made sense to me. Even when I was lost and scared and confused and fighting against feelings I didn't understand quite well, it all made sense to me, at some point. And when it didn't, then I fought until it did. It's always made sense to me, this, so I'm okay. Besides, when I write to you, being a mess and not making sense to anyone else doesn't matter, for I am the only one who will read those words, I am the only one who will know of the existence of these letters. The rest of the world and you will never know about them. Just me. This is just me, and my feelings, and you in my thoughts, but you will never read this. This will be a well kept secret, unknown to the rest of the world, just like my dreams, just like my pain, just like my love for you. And the rest of the world includes you. These letters, when I write them, I can be myself, and express myself, and everything is okay and nothing bad will happen if I'm a mess. These letters, writing them, it makes me feel safe. Dreaming of you makes me feel safe. So I better go now, close my eyes and dream of you, my love._

She had to stop writing. It was late. She was tired, oh, so very tired. She was exhausted. She was done crying, too: it was enough for that day. She had cried enough for that day, although that lately, ever since she had started writing those letters, she had stopped crying as much as she used to during the first days after their haunting goodbye. She had started gaining control over her emotions again when she was alone, when she was left alone to face her feelings and her misery and her fears.

It was the seventh letter, the seventh letter Chloe wrote to her beloved Jack, the man who would never know what she felt.

It was late. It was a Monday, so it meant she had to go the following day.

She needed to stop writing. She needed to get some sleep. She needed to dream of him. She needed to lay her head on the pillow, close her eyes and think of him, and everything would be okay. The secret to keep the nightmares away, she had discovered, finally.

She finished the seventh letter and then went to bed, where she would curl up in a ball and dream of the man that would never be her lover. She would see it in her dreams, whispering to her _thank you_ over and over and over and over again, comforting her, keeping the nightmares awake.

The last words of that letter were there, in her handwriting, on the paper. Those words she always writes every time she finishes writing a new letter to him.

_My love, be safe, please. Come back to me some day, please. I know you won't, but I can keep on dreaming. Dreaming of you will keep me alive, dreaming of you will keep me safe. _

_I love you. Forever._

_Your Chloe._


	3. Letter number nineteen

_Dear Jack,_

_I have nightmares again… about that day, when I… shot you. Only that in my nightmares you keep bleeding, you bleed to death, and no one comes in and saves you. Or some times right before I pull the trigger you pull the trigger yourself and you… just die there, because I wasn't brave enough, because I didn't do what you told me to do, what you were begging that I did, because I didn't trust you, because I… because I was weak._

She stopped writing. Some times writing to him was so hard. Most of the times it was a relief, most of the times it was the way she coped with everything, most of the times it was her escape, most of the times she only felt saved and protected when she wrote those letters she was sure he would never laid his beautiful blue eyes on (and it was okay, really, because she wasn't sure she would be comfortable with him reading those letters, truth be told. She was sure she wouldn't be comfortable; as matter of fact, she would be terrified did he one day read those letters), but on nights like that night she couldn't feel at ease, she couldn't help it but to feel sad and worried and scared.

She had started writing that letter after tucking Prescott in because she wasn't ready to go to sleep and she had had trouble focusing on what she was trying to put down in words since the very beginning. It had taken her like twenty minutes to finally write 'Dear Jack,' and then another twenty minutes had passed until she started to express her tainted, twisted emotions.

_God, Jack, I don't know, I'm… I thought the nightmares were over for good. I thought I had found the right solution, I thought I had found what it took to make them go away: writing to you would be my medicine, my antidote, writing to you would make it all easier, it would be my therapy, it would make it all go away. _

_Apparently, I was wrong. Apparently they (the horrible nightmares) will always, at some point, come back to me. I guess I will have to get used to it, to them being a part of my life, as my love for you is, as my feelings for you are, as the memories I have of us are, as the thoughts of what could have been of us had things been different are. All of those things are a part of who I am, and so are the nightmares and the fears now. And I guess that I will have to accept sooner or later, and for my mental health's sake I hope it is sooner than later. They'll fade away for a certain amount of time, I know, but now I see that there is no way they'll fade away forever: they will always come back. At some point, they will always come back to remind me of the past we shared, of the things I did, the things you did, the things I said, the things I didn't say, the things you said, the things I wanted you to say even though I knew you would never say them, the things that could have happened, the things that I hoped would some day happen even if they were impossible…_

_Jack, you were an impossible love. You were the man I wanted to have but couldn't, because you were so out of my league…_

She was really having trouble focusing. She was really having a hard time focusing. She took several deep breaths, and then she tried to gain back control over her emotions.

But her emotions had been uncontrolled by such a long time… Could she ever gain that control back? Or was it lost for good? Was it lost forever?

God, she had a headache. She had such a bad headache.

_I'm a disaster tonight. My head is a disaster tonight. My mind is filled with thoughts and memories and things I don't know if are bad or good for me. I haven't had a good night of sleep in days. I haven't been able to focus on anything for days. All I can think of is you. Jack, for the past ten years of my life, you are the only thing I have thought about. And I have a feeling that you will always be the only thought filling my mind, the only one holding my heart in their hands. My heart is yours to keep, to break, to fix, to heal, but who cares? I'm not sure you did. I'm not sure you do. I'm not sure you will. I'm not sure you would. You have your issues to work on; you have some rough stuff to deal with, rougher than me being desperately, helplessly, hopelessly in love with you. It would be selfish, wanting you to think of me the way I think of you, wanting you to look at me the way I look at you. _

_You were so out of my league._

_You were always so out of my league. But it's too typical of me, falling for the guy that I can't have. I don't want it to sound like I am a high school nerd girl who has a crush on the team's captain, because whatever went on between us or whatever didn't go between us or whatever that could have gone between us was far from being something that one could relate to some stupid teenage crush. I'm just saying…_

She didn't know what she was saying.

She had no idea about what she really wanted to say.

She was aching, she was tired, she was sick, she was worried, she missed him, she loved him, the nightmares haunted her even when she was awake, sleeping had become a difficulty again, she wasn't eating well (she hadn't been eating well for quite some time now), and even though she had been at that crappy state several times before during the course of her not so young anymore life, it had never been that hard on her.

Writing letters to him was supposed to be her salvation, her escape, her therapy, her medicine, her antidote. Writing letters to him was supposed to be something that did her good, something that relaxed her, something that helped her cope with everything that had happened, not only during that last day from Hell at the end of which he had had to disappear again, this time forever. No: writing letters to him was supposed to be part of a healing process that would take care of all the damage she had ever been done during those thirty six years. Writing letters to him was supposed to be the best part of her crappy days.

Well, that night, the writing thing wasn't working.

She couldn't think straight.

She couldn't turn her feelings into words.

She couldn't express what she needed to get off her chest.

She just wanted to curl up in a ball and cry her eyes out until she fell asleep. She would be waken up by the nightmares, most likely, but at least she would have stolen those forty, fifty minutes of bliss before waking up all shaken up and with cold sweat damping her forehead and making her hair stick to her white, pale, sensitive skin.

She deep breathed again. That night, writing to him was just making everything worse than it already was.

She sighed tiredly deciding it was time to go to bed and call it a day (a shitty one, by the way, but weren't they all like that lately?), and on her desk unfinished it was left, Chloe O'Brian's nineteenth letter to Jack Bauer.

She didn't write them that night, the words she had finished the other letters with, but she didn't need to see them on paper to know they were true.

They probably were the truest thing about her.

_I love you, your Chloe._

Yes, that was the truest thing about her.

She was his. She was his Chloe. She had always been his Chloe, whether he wanted her to be his or not, whether he knew she was his or not, whether he knew her heart was his or not.

She sighed tiredly and turned the lights off, leaving the nineteenth letter to Jack Bauer from his Chloe O'Brian unfinished, without knowing that in another country, in another continent, there was a man that every night sat under the moonlight and wrote letters to her as well, knowing that would be the only thing to keep him from going insane.


	4. Memories and 'what ifs'

_Thank you for talking me into not abandoning this story and writing a new chapter instead of tossing it away. This chapter is for you.  
_

* * *

Memories, they were all he had left of the life he had once lived as Jack Bauer.

Memories, memories of his daughter, memories the granddaughter he would never get to know and maybe wouldn't even remember him, memories of the friends he had lost, memories of the women he had loved, memories of the amazing people he had worked and saved lives with, memories of his now forgotten passions, memories of the voices he loved hearing, memories of the things he loved doing, memories of the homes he had known, memories of the dreams he had given up on, memories of the men and women who had fought until the end for the same causes he once fought for…

Memories, they were practically all he had left, all he had left to cling to.

Memories, they were all he had left, all he had left to find hope in. Those memories where his strength, his only source of strength, and on to those memories he would have to hold if he wanted to keep himself from going insane.

Those memories were his comfort. Those memories were what his heart and soul fed off of. Those memories where his only light in dark times. Those memories were what kept him going on in his darkest moments. When demons took control and nightmares tortured him, memories of the people he loved were all he had to embrace so he wouldn't go completely insane.

He had his memories, those beautiful memories that sometimes seemed to have been someone else's and not his, memories that some times seemed to have taken place in another life. Memories to cling to, memories to keep himself from going insane, memories to hold onto; memories were all he had left.

But he also had 'what ifs'. Lots and lots of 'what ifs' that wouldn't leave him alone, that would insist on always keeping company, that was all he had been left with. He tried to push them away, he tried as hard as he could, but they would not let him rest. And those 'what ifs' tortured him in ways one could have never imagined.

The life he had been dreaming of the morning of the day that changed everything and turned his life upside down had become nothing but a collection of them, a collection of 'what ifs' that kept his mind running a million miles per second every time he closed his eyes and tried to get some sleep, whatever little sleep he could get.

What if he had refused to help Chloe and gone back to Los Angeles with Kim and his family?

What if he hadn't gotten himself in that mess that ended up costing him everything?

What if he had left New York sooner? Where would he be now? He would be in California, with his daughter, with his son in law, with his granddaughter, that little girl that meant everything. His family meant everything; to be with them was everything he had ever wanted. He had been so happy during those few days with them, taking Teri to the zoo, watching cartoons with her, trying to get her to call him 'grandpa', cooking his famous meals for Steve and Kim, telling Steve stories about Kim's childhood, telling Teri about her grandmother.

What if he hadn't let Renee in? What if he hadn't felt as strongly as he did about her? What if he hadn't made the promises he made, the promises he wanted to and was willing to see through but couldn't because she was killed mere minutes after they made love for the first and only time? What if he hadn't let Renee affect him the way she did? What if he hadn't insisted on getting revenge? What if he had looked the other way?

But oh, no, he couldn't just look the other way; he couldn't let them get away with it. He needed revenge. He needed to get revenge. He needed to make them pay, to make them all pay, to see them all suffer the way he had suffered. He needed to do the things he did. He would have never been able to live with himself had he not stayed and help Chloe when she asked him to, and he would have never been able to live with himself had he not stopped President Taylor for making a huge mistake.

What if he had died? What if they had killed them? What if President Taylor hadn't changed her mind on the last minute?

What if Renee had lived? What if they both had lived? What if he had been given a new chance at love? What if he had had the chance to see through the promises he had made? What if he had been given a new beginning? What if they both had made it out alive? What if they hadn't killed her? What if she had stayed with him, by his side? What if they had been given the chance to heal each other? What if they had been given the chance to live a life together? What if he had been given a new shot at happiness, a new shot at a normal life?

What if he hadn't survived that day? What if he had been killed? What if they hadn't gotten that call? What if they hadn't gotten the order not to pull the trigger? What if that bullet had destroyed him? What if that bullet that was meant to put him down had ended it all? What if he had met the end of the line that day?

Those were the questions he had to live with, and to those questions he didn't really have a satisfactory answer. Truth is told, to those questions he did not have an answer at all, not even a weak, lame answer to work on in order to find a better one.

But those weren't the only questions that drove him crazy. And memories of his family, memories of the life he had once had, memories of the life he had once dreamed of weren't the only memories he clung to.

There were other 'what ifs', lots and lots of 'what ifs' that had nothing to do with what would have happened had he gone and took that plane to Los Angeles with family instead of going back to CTU on a last mission. There were others 'what ifs', 'what ifs' that resolved around _her_: the woman that had always been faithful to him, the woman that had always looked out for him, the woman that had always stayed royal to him, the woman that had been always willing to risk everything – her job, her freedom, her life – for him, the woman that had always believed in him, the woman that had never lost faith in him.

What if she hadn't asked for his help that day? What if she had taken 'no' for an answer the first time he refused to help? What if she hadn't accused him of turning his back on the person that had always been there to risk everything for him when she needed him the most? What if he had said no and then walked away? What if she hadn't called Kim? What if Kim hadn't convinced him? What if he hadn't been convinced he would never be able to live with it if he walked away?

What if Chloe hadn't helped him when he needed it the most during the events of that dreadful day? He would have probably ended up dead, or seriously injured.

What if Chloe hadn't fought until the very last minute to protect him and keep him alive? What if Chloe hadn't done everything in her power to keep them from killing him when they had been ordered to do so? What if Chloe hadn't looked for him and found him before they did? What if Chloe hadn't risked everything to find him just in time? What if Chloe hadn't talked him out of killing the Russian President when he had the chance? What if Chloe hadn't talked him out of committing that murder in the name of Renee? What if she hadn't said the right words at the right time? What if he hadn't listened to her? What if she hadn't risked everything to protect that chip with the recording that proved he was right, that recording that proved he had been telling the truth all along?

What if Chloe hadn't been faithful until the very end? What if Chloe hadn't stayed loyal to him until the very end? What if she had abandoned him? What if she had turned him in? What if she hadn't acted like the amazing woman he knew her to be? What if she hadn't risked her safety, her job, her freedom, her life for him?

'What ifs' resolving around Chloe were worse than those resolving around Renee, because they forced him to reflect on his mortality, they forced him to reflect on the decisions he had made and the decisions he had not made, the things he had done and the things he wanted to do but had been talked out of doing. 'What ifs' resolving around Chloe forced him to go into some sort of debate with himself: was he happy he was alive? Was he happy she had done everything she was capable of and more to keep them from killing him? Was he happy he survived that day? Was he happy she helped him escape? Was he happy they didn't kill him?

He didn't have an answer to those questions. He wished he did, but he didn't. Not yet, at least.

A life away from Kim and his granddaughter, missing them, worrying about them constantly, not being able to see them, not being able to talk to them, that was the worst punishment he could think of, worse than physical punishment, worse than torture. Would have it been better had he died? He didn't have an answer to that either. He just didn't know… yet. He didn't know if he was grateful Chloe saved him, he didn't know if he deep down resented her for doing so. All he knew was he was grateful she had remained loyal and faithful to him until the very end, no matter what she had done or why she had done it, no matter if she thought she was doing the right thing while he thought she could have done something differently. Loyal and faithful to him she had stayed until the very end, and that meant more than words could ever sum up. To him, Chloe's loyalty meant so much he wasn't sure he would ever be able to put it into words.

'What ifs' and unanswered questions were practically everything he had been left with: 'what ifs', unanswered questions and memories. They kept him awake on long, cold nights. They wandered his mind, torturing him, taking him to places he did not want to go to some times, comforting him others. All his thoughts, reflections, emotions, feelings and doubts weighted on his chest, and he needed to get them off it somehow, but he didn't know a way how. He just knew everything was more bearable if he held onto memories, and memories of Chloe were definitely his favorites, because they brought to him a sense of safety he had not been able to experience in a very long time.

She had never let him down. She had been always loyal, faithful. She had always protected him. She had been willing to risk everything for him. She had always taken care of him. She had always been there for him. She had always been willing to help him up. She had always been willing to help him out. She had always trusted him. She had always admired him. For so long she had been his constant, his only constant. She had been his rock, his support, the only person he would go to every time he felt trapped, every time he was in danger, every time there was a new threat he had to deal with to save the innocent lives of millions of citizens. She had always been there for him, whether he asked for her help or not.

Memories of her, memories of her were his favorite memories, because they were simple yet beautiful; because they weren't complex, yet they were meaningful. Because they didn't pain him as much as memories of the short time he had spent with Kim and Teri did. Memories of Chloe were his favorite, because they held a special meaning: there was someone out there who had cared about him enough to be willing to sacrifice everything for him; there was someone out there who had gone to all possible, imaginable extents in order to protect him. Memories of Chloe held a special meaning: they meant there was someone walking on the face of the Earth that had never left him alone, no matter the context, no matter the circumstances.

Memories of Chloe kept the nightmares and the 'what ifs' at bay. Memories of Chloe kept him warm. Memories of Chloe made him feel less nostalgic and less alone. Memories of Chloe kept him company. Memories of Chloe kept him sane. Memories of Chloe made him feel safe. Memories of Chloe were his safety blanket: there was no other way to describe it. Memories of Chloe made him feel like smiling again, even if after everything he had gone through someone would have thought he would have lost of ability to do so. Memories of Chloe kept him going. Memories of Chloe didn't torture him. Memories of Chloe were stronger than those 'what ifs' that resolved ar0und her and the choices she had made on that day. Memories of Chloe were stronger than the pain, because they meant he had someone loyal and faithful out there, because they meant he wasn't entirely alone.

And the more he clung onto those memories, the more he realized his relationship with her had been even more complicated that he had always thought it to be. The more he clung onto those memories, the more he understood things that had always been there but that he hadn't been able to see before. The more he clung to those memories, the more he wished she was there to look out for him, to take care of him, to whisper to him everything would be alright and that she would have his back no matter what. The more he clung to those memories, the more he wished his farewell to her hadn't been so rushed. The more he clung to those memories, the more he wished he had been able to say a lot more than the words he whispered to the woman that had always been there guiding him through everything he had had to face for the past ten years.

Memories, memories, memories, unanswered questions, what ifs, memories, more unanswered questions, memories, nightmares, more 'what ifs', words he should have said but couldn't say rotting on his tongue, words he should have said but couldn't say poisoning his heart, words he should have said but couldn't say torturing him with the same intensity his tainted thoughts and reflections did, memories of Chloe getting mixed of 'what ifs', and unanswered questions driving him crazy. That was all he had left, that was everything he had been left with after the events of that dreadful day.

He needed to get it off his chest, he needed to get all of it off his chest, and almost four months passed until he found a way how; when he didn't, he simply couldn't believe he had not thought about it sooner, and once he was done writing that first letter, he almost _laughed_ at himself for not having realized before that night that he could get a brief wave of relief to wash him over from the inside if he wrote down his feeling, thoughts, regrets, memories and doubts.

_Dear Chloe,_

_I know you'll never read this. I don't even know why I'm writing this; maybe I am writing this for myself, maybe I am writing this because if I don't get it out somehow I'll explode. They say writing is like a therapy, you know? Someone said that once, or maybe I read it in a book, or maybe it's a line from a movie. I don't know. Someone said once that writing is a therapy. I have always liked writing, writing was my escape when I was a teenage boy, and although I stopped writing a long time ago, I think I never stopped needing that therapy. Maybe a lot of things would have gone differently; maybe a lot of things would have hurt less hadn't I stopped doing that one thing I loved. I don't even know if this makes sense, I just know I am feeling a lot better just by seeing my thoughts on paper. Yeah, maybe I should have never stopped writing. Maybe I should have remembered it was a thing I loved doing and that it would always bring some sort of relief. A sheet of paper, a pen… those two things are so basic, yet when I was young they were my best friends. Maybe I should have not lost touch with them. Maybe I should have kept them close. Maybe it's not too late to reconnect with them. _

_There are so many things that I need to get off my chest, so many things that have been weighting me down for such a long time. There are so many things I wish I could talk about with someone, there are so many things I wish I could say to someone, there are so many things I wish I could say to you. It's been so long since I last talked to anybody… My life is such a mess. I am such a mess. I am so messed up. _

_I think of you every night while I try to fall asleep. When I think of Kim or Teri, nightmares of them getting hurt by someone who wants to get even with me follow, and they terrorize me. When I think of you, tranquility follows; you've always been like a safety net to me. I know if you could read this, you would be blushing and scowling and you would tell me to shut the hell up and stop embarrassing you, so I am kind of glad you will never read these words I'm writing. I think of you because you have always been a person I could go to every time I needed help, every time I was lost, every time I was in danger, every time the rest of the world turned its back on me. I think of you because it helps me heal: knowing that someone trusted me that much, knowing that someone risked everything plenty of times just to have my back, it brings a sense of comfort that I really need in my life right now that I've been left with nothing but nightmares, unanswered questions and lots of 'what ifs' to deal with._

_I think of you every time I see that bullet wound in my shoulder, and some times I almost smile when I looked down at it. Everything that ever happened to me, every little thing has left a mark and whether they are visible or invisible, those marks are a part of me, they will be with me forever, and I will carry them with me whenever I go. You were (are) an important part of my life. You will forever be a part of me. In you I found a friend, in you I found someone to trust in, in you I found someone to hold onto, in you I found someone to go to every time the world would threat to stop turning, in you I found someone that would never leave me. This mark on my shoulder reminds me of that, of how faithful and loyal you always were to me, it reminds me of our friendship. It's a bittersweet sensation the one I get every time I look down at it, though, because it also reminds me of all those times I was mean to you, all those times I yelled at you, all those times I put you in compromised positions, all those times I made you feel bad, all those times I didn't value you or simply took you for granted; it also reminds me of a lot of things I wish I had said but didn't. _

_Chloe, you always knew the right answer to the difficult, tricky questions. You've no idea how I wish you were here so you could help me answer lots of those questions I have. I don't know how to deal with them, and they are starting to be bigger than me. All these 'what ifs', they keep me awake at night; they're almost as bad as the nightmares. How I wish I could talk to you about… Well, about everything: my daughter, my granddaughter, Renee… I need you friendship more than anything, because during these months I've spent hiding and trying to start over new (is that even possible? I wonder…) I realized your friendship was something I always counted on but never really valued, or at least I didn't value it the way I should have. And now I need it so much… and all I have to hold onto are memories._

_Chloe, there are so many things I wish I had told you the last time we spoke. I wish I had told you I was sorry I treated you the way I did when you first came to CTU. Who would have known you'd end up being the one who would have my back all these years? Who would have known you'd end up being my constant, my rock, the one person I would always be able to count on? Who would have known that analyst no one liked and that I yelled at practically ten times every morning would become my best friend? Who would have known I would come to need you so much, this much, when I could barely stand you and wanted to find a reason to fire you so badly I even thought of making something up a couple of times so my firing you would be justified? Who would have thought, who would have known, who would have said you would end up being the one that would keep me alive for so many years? Who would have thought I would end up finding release and relief by writing a letter to you?_

_Chloe, I need you in my life right now. I need to see your familiar face. I need to hear your familiar voice. I need to see you scowl. I need your friendship. I need someone to remind me who I am, who I was, I need someone to reassure me the events of that day didn't kill whatever was left of me. I need to hear your voice, but I'd already written that. Sorry, I am so tired… If I didn't make any sense before, now I am sure this just sounds like drunken talk. I am so tired, so worn out… I need your friendship so much, Chloe, and when I see your name in paper, in my handwriting, I miss you even more._

_I wish I could call you, but I won't, because that would mean putting you and your son in danger, and I would never forgive myself if something bad happened again to someone I care about deeply (same reason why I cannot call Kim, or contact her, or go see her, or try to get in touch with her somehow). Besides, I am sure you probably left New York after that dreadful day. I hope you did, because you never belonged there, anyway, and neither did I. I hope you found a place you can truly call your home; I hope you are in the place where you belong to. I wish I were in the place where I belong to; I wish I had a place to call home, someone to call home. I wish I had your friendship. Your friendship means home. Why couldn't I see that before?_

He closed his eyes and deep breathed a couple of times.

He felt better. He wasn't great, he hadn't healed completely, he was still a mess, his life was a mess, he was merged in a mess, he still had all those unanswered questions and those 'what ifs' weighting on his chest and shoulder, but he definitely felt a lot better.

Maybe that night he would be able to fall asleep without fearing nightmares. Maybe that night, if he rested his head on the pillow and thought of what he would write to Chloe the following morning in his second letter to her, he wouldn't be bothered by the ghosts that insisted on haunting him down and torture him with their presence in his dreams.

He had decided he would make a habit out of writing letters to Chloe. Chloe, she was his rock, his constant, his best friend.

And he needed her so much. He needed her so badly.

Who would have thought he would end up needing Chloe so badly?

That night he fell asleep thinking of her, clinging to those memories of her he embraced with such love. It was unknown to him that the woman he missed so much, his best friend, was still up, writing love letters to him, crying her eyes out as she poured down her feelings on paper, trying to find the same relief, the same release he had been so desperately looking for.


	5. To see him smile one last time

_Dear Jack,_

_Lately, for some reason unknown, I've been dreaming of your smile. You were never one to smile much, but on the rare occasions you did, believe me, my heart would explode in ecstasy, even if I tried my harder not to let it be shown, even if I tried my harder not to let it be seen, because I would have been so embarrassed had you noticed how much I adored that smile of yours. _

_Your smile is just one of the many things I love about you. Your smile is just one of the many things I am crazy about when it comes to you. Your smile is just one of the many things I fell in love with when I fell in love with you. Your smile is just one of the many things I miss. Your smile is one of the few things that keep me going. Your smile is just one of the many things I dream of every night.  
_

_Your smile is the one thing I think about every night before I fall asleep. Your smile is the one thing I dream about every night during those hours I lay on my bed and pretend everything's okay, when reality is that nothing is. _

_What wouldn't I do just to see you smile one last time?_

_Every day I think of you, every day my brain tries to figure out a way to find you, every day my brain tries to figure out a way to track you down and find you. Every day my heart beats faster when I allow myself to imagine for a moment what it would be like to travel the world looking for you. Every day my heart beats faster when I allow myself to imagine what it would be like to leave it all behind and risk it all, sacrifice it all just to be with you. _

_But then 'what ifs' start to attack me. And those attacks I am defenseless in front of.  
_

_What if you don't want to see anyone from your past ever again?_

_What if I jeopardize your life by trying to contact you?_

_What if I put my son or your daughter in danger by making a plan to find you?_

_What if you want to be left alone?_

_All those what ifs are driving me crazy, literally crazy. But then I think of your smile, and all of a sudden everything gets better, even if for a millisecond, and my heart beats faster, and I allow myself to imagine – just for a moment – how it would be like to hear your voice again, how it would be like to see you smile one last time.  
_

_I really don't know what to do, Jack. My life is a mess, my mind is a mess, I don't seem to be coming up with any good ideas to pull out a decent plan (and when some good ideas come up, for some reason I push them away, maybe because I am terribly scared of starting something that maybe I won't finish, something that maybe will end up being the death of you, something that maybe will end up being the death of this thing that we have, whatever it is, call it a friendship or a one sided romance, whatever you're comfortable calling it), but even if I eventually found out a way to track you down and contact you, would I be brave enough to dare do it? Would I be brave enough to let my feeling take over? Would I be brave enough to let my heart decide instead of listening to my brain, that is always telling me do stay at home with my arms crossed and just let it go? _

_Right now, all I can see when I close my eyes is your smile. All I can smell is your male scent. All I can hear is your laughter (you weren't one to laugh much either, but when you did… Every time you laughed, I fell in love with you even harder. Did you ever notice that?). Right now, my heart is telling me to take a chance and stop tiptoeing around 'it', because I don't have all the time in the world, and somehow I know I need to find you sooner, somehow I know I need to find you before it's too late, before nothing can be done. _

_But doubts and what ifs are still there, and they won't ever leave me alone, they won't ever let me be, they won't ever stop haunting me, they won't ever stop putting barriers between us. And I don't know what to do to make them go away. I really don't know how to make them go away.  
_

_What should I do, my love? What do you want me to do? Should I keep on living like this, finding comfort in writing you letters your eyes will never come to rest upon? Should I keep on living like this, finding comfort in writing you letters that will never be read by any other soul? Should I keep on living like this, being consumed and devoured by what ifs, doubts, memories, ideas, plans and fears? Or should I go find you?_

_I'm so confused._

_I'm so tired and so scared._

_I don't know what to do._

_Lately, for some reasons unknown, I've been thinking a lot about your smile. Lately, for some reasons unknown, I've been thinking a lot about coming up with the perfect plan to track you down and find you. Lately, for some reasons unknown, I've been dreaming of you and me finding each other, seeing each other again, reuniting.  
_

_God, Jack, my life is a mess. My head is a mess. I can't get my ideas straight. I don't know what I wanna do. I don't know what you would want me to do. I don't know what I should do. All I know is that I love, I miss you, that I would die just to see you smile one last time. All I know is that the more days that pass me by, the more I wish I had the courage to leave it all behind and go find you._

_But I cannot help but to wonder, do you want to be found? Do you want to see me again? Would you be happy to see me again? Would you consider it a betrayal to our friendship and the promise I made to you before you parted if I put so much on the line just so satisfy my need of seeing you smile? Would you smile if you suddenly got a call from me? Would you be happy to hear from me? Would you hold me if I asked you to? Would you?_

_I wish I had a way of knowing what you would want me to do._

_I wish I could know if you want to be found._

_I wish these nights I spend dreaming of your smile would become into nights spend in your arms, listening to your soft breathing._

_I wish I knew what to do._

_I wish I had the strength to finally stand up and do what my heart tells me I should do._

_Jack, I love you, I've always loved you, it's always been you, it'll always be you, I will miss you forever, I will remember the sound of your voice, your smell and your smile until the day I breathe for the very last time, I know I will._

_What I don't know is: will I ever see you again before that day? Will I ever get to tell you how I feel before the day I'm destined to take my last breath? Or am I doomed to die with my chest and heart heavy with all these what ifs, with all these doubts, with all these fears?_

_Is the phantom of your smile I'll live with until I close my eyes for the very last time, or will it be you holding my hand the day I finally leave this Earth?_

_I've so many questions that haven't been answered. I've so many questions I wish could be answered by someone. But I guess I will have to find the answers myself, because I doubt someone will knock on my door to tell me what I'm supposed to do with this._

_I love you. I will love you forever. And you need to know this: it's your smile what keeps me going, it's this love what keeps me going. _

_Forever yours,_

_Chloe. _

She dreamed of him that night. She dreamed of his smile. She dreamed of his voice, soothing her with sweet words she wasn't really sure Jack Bauer would ever tell someone, because he wasn't the type to get all mushy and romantic (or at least that what was she thought).

She dreamed of finding him, she dreamed of seeing him again, she dreamed of tracing with her fingers that smile she was so in love with.

And when she woke up the following morning, her mind had been made up.

All those questions that were yet to find their answers, were answered.

Because in her dreams, she had remembered something she couldn't believe she hadn't remembered before, something she couldn't believe she hadn't thought of until then.

She knew were she was. Or at least she was positive where she should start looking for him.

Why hadn't she remembered that before? Why hadn't she remembered that sooner?

Maybe because it wasn't the right time.

Maybe because it was meant to happen like that.

She could not live the rest of her life with her chest and heart heavy with what ifs, doubts and fear.

She had to find him.

She needed to find him.

She needed to be in his arms, just once, even if just as a friend, even if she wasn't sure she'd ever be able to confess to him how much she loved him, even if she wasn't sure she would ever be able to cross that line.

She needed to see that smile, just one more time.

And she would. She had decided she would. Somehow, she would find him. Somehow, she would track him down.

She would not die without having seen that smile one last time.

Not now, not that she had suddenly be hit by a memory that she was sure would end up leading her to him.


End file.
